then he stepped out from behind the copse of trees where he’d been videotaping the solemn proceedings below. Not that he’d really expected Gail Morgan’s killer to show up here, considering she’d been murdered in New York City. But you never knew. He wouldn’t be the first killer to show up at his victim’s burial. Must give them an extra power rush, Mike thought, seeing all that pain and knowing they caused it.
He hadn’t been exactly immune himself, though his own feeling was one of heaviness. He’d had a hard time looking at Ellen Harris through his camera lens. Watching her, he knew it was taking everything she had just to stay on her feet.
She’d looked so vibrant, so full of life when he first saw her at the airport. Right up until the moment she looked up and saw him coming toward her.
Sometimes this job sucks, he thought, setting the camera in the trunk of the car and slamming the lid shut.
In the still quiet of the cemetery the sound echoed then died away into nothingness.
~ * ~
"Eat," Myra urged. "You’ll get sick if you don’t eat." Myra set the bowl of steaming soup in front of her, placed a spoon in her hand as if Ellen were a child learning to feed herself.
"Maybe later, okay?" Ellen tried to smile, not wanting to seem ungrateful.
But Myra was not to be dissuaded. "Just a little," she coaxed.
Having no will to resist, Ellen obeyed mechanically, setting the spoon down when she could no longer swallow.
She looked out the window. The skies had cleared. It was not going to snow after all. Sunlight lay a buttery path on the light wood table, played over the backs of her hands. It seemed a cruel betrayal that the sun should be shining, that she should be drawing warmth from its rays. Ellen placed her hands in her lap. Despite the sun, they were icy cold.
Myra came and took the bowl away. "Good girl," she said, though Ellen had eaten little. Water ran in the sink. Myra was doing the dishes. With a husband and three kids, God knew she had more than enough to do at home, but Ellen was comforted that she was here.
A buzz of restrained conversation drifted from the living room. Some of those who had attended the funeral had come back to the house. She wondered if Paul had invited them.
Gail should be here with me now. We should be enjoying our little time together before she goes on tour. N ow Ellen would never see her again. Gail was lost to her—to the world. Her beautiful song had ended.
Someone—out there—had done that.
Suddenly, she began to shake—a violent, convulsive shivering that started in her legs, swiftly gripping her entire body. She tried to make it stop, and couldn’t. From somewhere, Paul appeared, stepping in front of an anxious Myra to drape a knit shawl around her shoulders. His kissed the top of her head.
"Shh," he said. "Breathe deeply. That’s it. That’s the way."
"She ate a little soup," Myra said in a small voice, sounding as if Ellen’s present condition was somehow her fault. Myra used to apologize for things that weren’t her fault. But she didn’t do that anymore. It was a thing they had worked on.
"Good," Paul said. To Ellen, he said, smiling, "It’s important that you keep up your strength. Why don’t you come upstairs and lie down for a while?" He placed gentle hands on her shoulders. "You look so tired, dear. You really do need to rest."
He was right. She was tired. So tired she wondered if she might die from it. Was that possible? The thought was not an unwelcome one. Yet, she didn’t think she really wanted to be alone just now.
She looked up at Paul, so handsome in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and maroon tie. She saw him in her mind’s eye, moving about the parlor, extending a warm hand to one after another of those who came to pay their respects, smiling just enough. How smoothly and expertly he had handled everything. Ellen was grateful to him. Even if she’d been up to it, she was not very adept at that sort of thing.
Paul
He hadn’t been exactly immune himself, though his own feeling was one of heaviness. He’d had a hard time looking at Ellen Harris through his camera lens. Watching her, he knew it was taking everything she had just to stay on her feet.
She’d looked so vibrant, so full of life when he first saw her at the airport. Right up until the moment she looked up and saw him coming toward her.
Sometimes this job sucks, he thought, setting the camera in the trunk of the car and slamming the lid shut.
In the still quiet of the cemetery the sound echoed then died away into nothingness.
~ * ~
"Eat," Myra urged. "You’ll get sick if you don’t eat." Myra set the bowl of steaming soup in front of her, placed a spoon in her hand as if Ellen were a child learning to feed herself.
"Maybe later, okay?" Ellen tried to smile, not wanting to seem ungrateful.
But Myra was not to be dissuaded. "Just a little," she coaxed.
Having no will to resist, Ellen obeyed mechanically, setting the spoon down when she could no longer swallow.
She looked out the window. The skies had cleared. It was not going to snow after all. Sunlight lay a buttery path on the light wood table, played over the backs of her hands. It seemed a cruel betrayal that the sun should be shining, that she should be drawing warmth from its rays. Ellen placed her hands in her lap. Despite the sun, they were icy cold.
Myra came and took the bowl away. "Good girl," she said, though Ellen had eaten little. Water ran in the sink. Myra was doing the dishes. With a husband and three kids, God knew she had more than enough to do at home, but Ellen was comforted that she was here.
A buzz of restrained conversation drifted from the living room. Some of those who had attended the funeral had come back to the house. She wondered if Paul had invited them.
Gail should be here with me now. We should be enjoying our little time together before she goes on tour. N ow Ellen would never see her again. Gail was lost to her—to the world. Her beautiful song had ended.
Someone—out there—had done that.
Suddenly, she began to shake—a violent, convulsive shivering that started in her legs, swiftly gripping her entire body. She tried to make it stop, and couldn’t. From somewhere, Paul appeared, stepping in front of an anxious Myra to drape a knit shawl around her shoulders. His kissed the top of her head.
"Shh," he said. "Breathe deeply. That’s it. That’s the way."
"She ate a little soup," Myra said in a small voice, sounding as if Ellen’s present condition was somehow her fault. Myra used to apologize for things that weren’t her fault. But she didn’t do that anymore. It was a thing they had worked on.
"Good," Paul said. To Ellen, he said, smiling, "It’s important that you keep up your strength. Why don’t you come upstairs and lie down for a while?" He placed gentle hands on her shoulders. "You look so tired, dear. You really do need to rest."
He was right. She was tired. So tired she wondered if she might die from it. Was that possible? The thought was not an unwelcome one. Yet, she didn’t think she really wanted to be alone just now.
She looked up at Paul, so handsome in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and maroon tie. She saw him in her mind’s eye, moving about the parlor, extending a warm hand to one after another of those who came to pay their respects, smiling just enough. How smoothly and expertly he had handled everything. Ellen was grateful to him. Even if she’d been up to it, she was not very adept at that sort of thing.
Paul
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